The Chair
by Elesariin
Summary: The Master wants the Doctor to sit down. He's asking politely. ... This can NOT be good. Missing scene for "End of Time." One-sided Master/10th, implied 10th/Rose.


_I don't own anything. Missing scene for End of Time. _

* * *

Wilfred does not understand. Not even a little bit. All of this is too big and strange for him, and he's sure that Donna would have… Well, anyway, he has no idea what's going on. That man, the man from his dreams—He's everyone. Everyone in the room has turned into… him. Barring the Doctor, of course, who looks about as stunned as Wilfred feels.

"Now," says the frightening man from Wilfred's dreams, his tone as sunny as a summer afternoon in the Sahara dessert, "Won't you sit down?"

The Doctor glances from the man's face to the indicated chair, looking like he'd rather have a root canal. "Ummm… Noooo. I think I'm good where I am, thanks all the same. You go ahead and sit down, though; you're looking a _bit ill_. Oh, and," he adds absently, "Like you've gone completely around the bend. That too. More so that usual, even. There, that's exciting! Never thought I'd be saying that; you've broken your old record." His voice is very nearly as cheerful as the… what did he call himself? Saxon? The Master…? Well, Wilfred would use that second name when hell froze over.

Still smiling, Saxon snaps his fingers. Instantly, every guard in the room is pointing their guns… At Wilfred. He tenses, shifting his feet. "Don't!" the Doctor shouts out, every muscle in his body tightening. All traces of cheer vanish from his face; he looks frightened, which makes Wilfred's heartbeat pick up even more than it already has.

"Then get," Saxon says, still in that bright, polite voice, "In the chair. 'Kay?"

The Doctor glares, his dark eyes furious. It he looked at Wilfred that way, he is positive that he'd go into cardiac arrest. It's cold. It's furious. Most of all, it's patient. This quiet rage can and will wait. It has time.

Saxon yawns.

The Doctor hesitates for a second, hovering, clearly not wanting to sit down in the chair—a weird leather recliner-ish thing—but not wanting to get his friend shot, either. "Look. This is bigger than you can possibly imagine. This is bigger than you and me. You've got to listen; I can—" Guns all around the room make ominous clicking sounds. The Doctor flinches and falls silent, his concerned eyes flicking over to check on the old man.

"Do not. Test me. Please." Saxon says irritably. He sounds more bored than anything else. "We've both done this before. We both know how it works. Sit in the GOD DAMN CHAIR. NOW." Wilfred flinches at the sudden increase in volume, but the Doctor just glares at him imperiously, apparently unruffled. He does, however, slowly move to sit down, keeping his eyes on Saxon the whole time.

Finally, he lowers himself completely down onto the seat, looking as though he expects chains to snake up out of the armrests. Hey, who is Wilfred to say that's far fetched at this point? A couple of seconds later, he lets out a little breath and relaxes very slightly.

Saxon smiles. "Gooood." Suddenly, his hand blurs forward, and the Doctor's head snaps sharply back. Just like that, his wire-thin body goes completely limp in the chair, like flipping off a switch.

Wilfred takes a step forward without thinking about it. "Doctor!" Guns all over the room adjust themselves, and the old soldier stops moving very fast.

Saxon glances at back him, disinterested. "Oh, don't worry. He's just unconscious. The pansy. "

"YOU PISTOL-WHIPPED HIM!" Wilfred yells, outraged. Not only does he hurt the most amazing person Wilfred's ever met, he makes fun of him for getting hurt?

"Yes," Saxon replies matter-of-factly, twirling the pistol in his hands like a Clint Eastword, "I did. And wasn't it just first class?" With that, he bursts out laughing; the other Saxons in the room join him, clapping and hooting like he just bought everyone a round of drinks. It _would_ probably be funny if this were a movie or a programme or something, but… It's not. It's really really not, and the Doctor suddenly just looks like a kid. Younger than Donna, even. Not an all powerful God of time and space. His face is very still, and one arm hangs limply over the edge of the chair.

Suddenly, the original Saxon stops laughing; the others quickly fall silent as well. "You and you," he says, pointing at two former lab techs, "Tie him up!" He points at Wilfred, then turns back to the Doctor.

As the copies bundle him into a chair and tie him up, Wilfred keeps a careful eye on what the original is doing with his helpless friend. It seems to involve lots of black leather straps. Finally, the two binding him finish and return to doing their duties. Saxon numero uno, however, is still tying up his captive... Or is he? As Wilfred watches with sharp, suspicious eyes, Saxon runs his index finger over the smooth slope of the Doctor's jaw line and down his throat, coming to stop just above the collarbone.

"… What the hell are you doing?" Wilfred asks, trying not to sound as protective as he feels. "He's already unconscious!"

Saxon cocks an eyebrow. "So?" Slowly, deliberately, he brings the same hand up to grab a fistful of the Doctor's unruly brown hair. Just as gradually, he pulls the hair, forcing the Doctor's head back, his chin out, and exposing more of his neck. The Doctor himself doesn't seem to be doing much to assist with this, but his eyelids flutter slightly without opening. Saxon doesn't notice. He's entirely focused on his own free hand as he takes two fingers and presses them to the Doctor's neck, right over the jugular. The unconscious Time Lord shivers, and Saxon smiles. If the Doctor looked vulnerable before, now he looks absolutely—

_Why does Saxon care about the Doctor's heartbeat?_

"Stop it," growls Wilfred. He's not really thinking about what he's saying; he doesn't even know what this Saxon person is doing. He just knows that he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the way Saxon looks at the Doctor—his friend, and Donna's—or the way his eye seem to get hungrier the longer he looks at him. And not a normal hunger, he doesn't think… although it is close. More than that, though, he doesn't like the doctor's reaction to being touched. The shiver. Like he'd be brushed with an ice cube. "Leave him alone."

"No, no," Saxon says, sounding much too patient, "That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. If I left him alone, then he would get away. Simple truth. He would. He always does."

"You don't have to touch him," Wilfred clarifies indignantly.

A slow smile, and insane creation with far too many teeth, stretches across Saxon's face, and he releases his grip on the Doctor's hair. The Doctor's head stays in the exact same position, anyway—chin up, already loose tie loosened even further to give Saxon access to his bared throat. "How DOES he do that?" Saxon asked, looking at Wilfred with an intensity that makes him want to start taking slow, careful steps backward. Being tied up, he just settles for looking politely nonplussed. "Oh, none of that. Come on. How does he keep getting you apes to LOVE him like this? He never was any good at it back home."

Wilfred has nothing to say to this, so he firmly restates his point. "Don't touch him. You don't need to, right? He can't get away. He's your prisoner. Don't make him …anything else." He isn't really sure what he's talking about—he's an old military man. Old fashioned. Still, that burning hunger in those eyes…

Suddenly, the Master—Yes, Wilfred thinks that. Saxon just doesn't fit the insanity hiding in this man's face-- has a frighteningly vicious look on his face. "Who do you think you are," he spits, "His dad?"

"No sir. But I'd be proud to be. "

Slowly, deliberately, the Master lowers his hand to touch the side of the Doctor's face. "And what if I WANT to touch him, anyway? Hm? What then? You're a helpless old man, and I'm everyone on the planet." His hand slides down to cup the Doctor's chin, and he jerks it toward him, leaning down so that their faces are mere inches apart--one completely still, empty of emotion, with slightly parted lips and peacefully closed eyes, and the other completely focused, sharp, and more awake than it probably should be. Fever-bright eyes. Appraising. More like trying to push Wilfred's buttons. For all his power, this man really is like a little kid.

"You won't touch him because you're going to need him to clean up your mess," Wilfred says with absolute certainty. Inside, he desperately hopes that he's not in the process of getting himself killed. But... even if he is, distractions are good. He can't let anything happen to Donna's Doctor."He won't be any good as a broken toy. Leave him alone!"

This little piece of information seemed to shock the master… and shock quickly turned to rage. He spins around, fury turning his pale face bright red. "Take it back. TAKE IT BACK. I do NOT need him. I will NEVER need him. If anything, he needs me! He wouldn't know what he was without me! I'm the last of the Time Lords aside from him, and if I were gone, he'd be ALONE. He'd go mad. Your precious Doctor would be completely off his rocker. Maybe he'd spend the rest of his lives rocking back and fourth in an little wooden chair, staring at nothing. Or—Here's a good one—maybe he'd blow up his beloved little Earth! The possibilities are limitless!"

Wilfred raises his eyebrows, and states flatly, "It definitely sounds like one of you needs the other one." The Master falters. He didn't expect to hear that, apparently. "He thought you were dead up until a day or so ago, and let me tell you: happy as a clam." Not strictly true, of course, but—

"You're LYING. " Wilfred opens his mouth to reply, but a little moan from the Doctor cuts him off before he can begin. The Master's head immediately snaps around, and he hovers over his prisoner, his expression intense. Lightly, almost tenderly, he touches the Doctor's cheek.

The Doctor lets out a little gasp at the touch, and shivers again."…R…rose?" he mumbles, still in that fuzzy place between unconsciousness and actually waking up.

"Wrong," the Master grates out, "Answer." The Doctor's eyes shoot open, wide with panic, but the Master is already on him, gagging him with something that matches all of that black leather, and he is not putting any particular effort into being gentle about it. The Doctor struggles a little, shaking his head back and fourth, but since the he's bound and still more than a little dazed (possibly even concussed), it's over pretty quickly. "And that's enough talking from you," The Master says a moment later as he steps back, his tone amiable again. At least on the surface. The Doctor stares back at him, trying to communicate something with his eyes. The Master just laughs. "Oh. You should thank your dad over there. Protected your virtue."

The eyes blink, flick over to look at Wilfred, and studies his expression, trying to understand. A moment later, he gets it. His eyes flick back to the Master for a split second; he swallows and looks back at the old man. Maybe it's Wilfred's imagination, but it seems like quite a bit of color has drained from the Doctor's face-- almost like he might be ill. He is sure, though, that he's not imagining the gratitude in those expressive eyes. "Now!" the Master says briskly, "Lets get to business. Or, rather, lets me get to everyone's business, and you two can sit there and look properly terrified and disgusted. Thaaaat's the ticket," he approves, giving the Doctor a cheesy thumbs up. The Doctor rolls his eyes and then closes them, clearly trying to gather his thoughts.

It's going to be a loooong day.


End file.
